


Dandelion's meaning (who am I?)

by Eorendel



Series: The Man From U.N.C.L.E. Winter Holiday Gift Exchange 2016 [1]
Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (2015)
Genre: Alternate Universe - High School, Alternate Universe - Teenagers, Angst with a Happy Ending, Depression, Divorce, Fake/Pretend Relationship, Feels, First Love, Gaby is awesome as always, Gen, Illya is still cranky, M/M, Male-Female Friendship, Multi, Napoleon is super suave
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-18
Updated: 2016-12-18
Packaged: 2018-09-09 11:42:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,175
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8889418
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Eorendel/pseuds/Eorendel
Summary: Original request:idk why but young/teenager!aus of these two just sound really amazing. like i don't even care about the circumstances or setting, something about them being teenagers who have been exposed to the world but haven't learned to mask themselves from it really intrigues me. what would specific aspects of their characters be like at the age where emotions run high and the world is a foreign place?
Life is rough in general. The Golden Rule Illya found out that worked for himself and he recommended to anyone who wanted to survive in this world was: move (the F*ck) on. Certainly, life was hard, specially had been hard on him, but somehow not everything was bad. It got even better in summer. He never thought an assignment from school could turn his life upside down and that Victoria's boyfriend would be involved in that change.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [hawkayy](https://archiveofourown.org/users/hawkayy/gifts).



> It's a cover from another band but it's [nice](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=D9_b8W12hpg)

 

Another day at school. Same routine. Classes, notebooks, teachers, classmates, talks, clubs, but mostly: empty words. Or at least that was how Illya felt. He was in his junior year and school was mostly okay for him. A steady record of good grades, enough extracurricular activities, volunteer work, etc. He was steadily setting the path for the “future”. The thing was, Illya didn’t know what the word “future” entailed at all. Right now, without reason, his family was breaking apart. Stability was the one thing that had always prevailed in Illya’s life. And now, right before him, everything was collapsing.

It wasn’t a simple divorce. Gaby told him there weren’t “simple divorces” _at all_. She would know, her parents split up when she was really young. She remembered some things, fights and yelling and tears. So in a sense, she could relate to Illya. However, it wasn’t the same. Illya bravely tried to talk to her – tell her how much he disliked the fact that his father had fallen on drinking, how his mother was withering away under his gaze, how older she looked compared to months before, how powerless he felt when he saw his mother crying or taking too many pills to sleep – but he couldn’t, the words wouldn’t come out. He just talked words that fit, that were hollowed, that were rehearsed, that were expected from him.

Illya was tired.

Illya felt perturbed.

His feelings were muddled inside his chest – he still loved his father dearly – but an emotional part of him told him that he should forget about that love. It told him he should hate his father instead. He betrayed them, Illya and his mother, he betrayed them both. Illya shouldn’t feel sympathy. He should feel––

The bell rang, ending the class. He automatically gathered his things. Somehow, his chest felt painfully tight.

Illya entered his next class thinking: _I thought you were better than that, Father._

He nodded at Gaby, skimmed the room for an empty seat, completely ignored Napoleon’s presence – despite him being in front of the only available seat in the room – and, of course, ignored Victoria’s icy eyes when he sat. He knew what she thought of him. Illya had heard it in hallways and in whispered conversations. He still couldn’t understand how someone could hold a grudge for so long. It wasn’t as if he did something bad. He simply turned her down when they were Freshmen. He didn’t want a girlfriend and he didn’t particularly like Victoria. Now that sentiment had cemented completely – and rightfully so. Gaby told him it was her wounded pride that made her behave like that. Apparently, no one had ever turned Victoria down before.

The following year, Napoleon transferred to their school and he was immediately caught in Victoria’s vice. Victoria made sure Napoleon only interacted with people she deemed worthy, and that didn’t include Illya and Gaby. It didn’t matter. Napoleon didn’t seem to have any interest in befriending anyone else. Illya and Napoleon were mere acquaintances, classmates that knew each other’s existence by proxy of others.

The first impression the raven-haired boy had – that he always had – was one of perfection. His manners, his looks, the way he expressed himself, the way he treated others – at least the ones he paid attention to – was impeccable. He looked perfect and from what Illya heard thanks to Gaby, who didn’t have any qualms about talking about the lives of others, Napoleon was the only son of a wealthy family – a beautiful mother, a successful father, the sole heir of lands in another country, intelligent and bright; good at everything he did.

_“Like a fucking white knight.”_ Gaby had said.

_“Don’t you mean Prince?”_ Illya had corrected.

_“Shut up, it’s the same thing in the end!”_ Gaby retorted.

Illya wisely remained silent at that.

He understood what Gaby meant though; Napoleon seemed to come from a fairy tale.

Illya felt the gnaw of something nasty in the pit of his stomach. He couldn’t help it, in front of him was the person who had what Illya wanted – _a normal family_. At that moment, the only thing he could feel was resentment – unwarranted – nonetheless real. He didn’t want to look at Napoleon but he was in front of him and all the bad memories and thoughts were getting worse and worse.  Illya slowly felt like he was drifting into something bad, his heart began to throb and he didn’t know why, he was beginning to have trouble breathing when the Principal’s secretary came through the door and called for him.

Something was wrong.

Really wrong.

They talked softly and he hated it. They spoke what had happened to his mother with concern and he hated it. They tried to comfort him and he hated it. His father came over to pick him up to go to the hospital not long after – he was silent as a ghost. They didn’t talk. The silence was suffocating. His mother was in the ICU. Illya couldn’t see her and he began to shake, the world began to turn red and then black and then into a blissful nothingness.

Why was this happening to him?

What could he do when the world was out of his control?

 

* * *

 

Another dull day at school. The routine was the same. Rinse and repeat. Rehearsal. Over and over. It was aggravating. It grated on his nerves. Nonetheless, Illya carried on. It was his last year of high school, just months away from graduating. He’d soon leave and go to college, preferably to a very faraway place where his father would not bother to visit. Not that they were friendly enough to each other to speak about fatherly visits.

They barely saw each other from the start of the year; Illya doubted his father would go through the trouble of inconveniencing himself with Illya. Illya scowled, and pushed the unpleasant thoughts of his father away. The bell rang and Illya went straight to the back of the room. Homeroom started and Illya gazed through the window, rain lazily fell from the sky, summer was getting close and he wasn’t looking forward to it.

The first class was calculus and Illya shunted any unnecessary thought inside a black box. Equations filled the blackboard and he began to take notes. The rain started to fall a little bit heavier, a little bit harder, it covered any unnecessary noise – like a curtain.

The sun’s rise and fall was the only indication of the pass of the time for Illya. Before he knew it, it was already lunch. Gaby sat with him and talked about what had happened to her during the day. He appreciated her effort to fill in the silence for the both of them; maybe he was being rude and ungrateful. She was his best friend and she was just trying to help, like she had done so for the past year. But he felt void of gratefulness or any kind of will to reciprocate her kindness. He guessed he was like a broken vase – no matter how much water people tried to pour in, it would always eventually leak out. He was ruined. He was never going to be the same.

Anything that was poured inside will ultimately flow away.

He had been broken since his mother died.

Illya wasn’t sure how he survived last year; Gaby had been the only support he had left after his mother’s passing. His dad wasn’t in the picture. He still couldn’t believe how someone could change so much in such little time. But he guessed that was human nature. The cruelest creatures on the planet. The only solace he had left was his goal. And his goal was simple. Go to college and forget he had a father.

At least he had improved from last year, he could hold meaningless conversations with others and almost important ones with Gaby. Even though he was seeing a counsellor, it wasn’t working. There was nothing to talk about. What happened happened. There was no turning back. What his father had done, what Illya could have done were deeds left forgotten in the past – and yet, their presence still haunted him day after day.

Soon his last class approached, and the rain still fell from the darkening sky.

AP Chemistry was an annoyance. Mr. Roderick had commented offhandedly that he would be giving the last project to finish over summer that would held a big amount of points. He expected to be working with his lab partner so far, Terry - A.K.A. _I’ll leave all the work to you_ \- Jones. What Illya didn’t expect was his teacher to announce that he had made some changes and that the new project would be done with different lab partners. There was an uproar that quickly died down when the teacher subtly threatened their grades.

It was the same for Illya, he’d do his work, regardless with whom he was paired with.

Mr. Roderick began to call out names, there were some groans, some cheers, mostly bored faces but Illya felt quite troubled when his and Napoleon Solo’s names were called together. Illya snapped his eyes towards the seat of the raven-haired boy. Napoleon seemed unconcerned, taking notes while the teacher was talking. Illya felt uncomfortable. He was going to work with Victoria’s boyfriend. The boyfriend who had surely listened to his girlfriend badmouth Illya left and right for the past two years. Illya could feel a headache building up.

He breathed through his nose, and said to himself: _I can do this. This is just school work. I can do it. I’ll just do what I always do._

_Carry on._

He glanced at Napoleon’s profile again.

_I can do this._

 

* * *

 

 

“Hello,” a velvety voice called, “Illya, right?”

Illya glanced up at his classmate, a tiny friendly smile, stance relaxed, backpack hung from his right shoulder;  he was making eye contact with Illya without care. The only one who could hold Illya’s stare nowadays was Gaby. A indescribable feeling began to creep inside his chest.

_Shit, I can’t do this._

Napoleon Solo was the epitome of a social butterfly. While Illya was… not.

Still, Illya forced himself to respond, and play along, “Yeah.” He paused. “You’re Napoleon.”

“Yeah, I was wondering how would you like to work in the project.” Napoleon went straight to the point.

Illya could either think that Napoleon was desperate to finish the project and get rid of him, or think that it was probably just the way Napoleon did things. Regardless of the answer, Illya agreed. The sooner they finished their work the sooner things would get to their rightful order and its normality.

But, what was “normal” anyway?

What was normal for Illya? Or for Gaby? Or for Napoleon? Or for everybody else?

Illya didn’t know, an quite frankly, he didn’t care.

 

* * *

 

Gaby decided to pick him up on the last day of classes to get ice cream and go to a nearby park. Illya couldn’t refuse for two simple reasons, one he wanted to spend time with Gaby since she was going to leave with her uncle to visit some relatives in England, and two: his father was at home for a short break which meant he was likely to stay at their house.

They parked the car and went to buy the ice cream, walked the distance to the park and snatched a place under a big oak tree. The first few moments were spent in companionable silence. The cicadas had started emerging, and their cry of freedom echoed through the blue sky.

“So, you’re working with Solo for the rest of the summer?” Gaby stated, more than questioned.

“For a few weeks. We decided to finish the project as quickly as possible.” Illya replied neutrally.

“When was the last time you two talked the project over?” Gaby asked nonchalantly.

Illya remained silent.

“Did you even exchange numbers?” Gaby asked, patience thinning.

Illya ate his last piece of cone meticulously. Gaby was waiting. He sighed. “He gave me his number.”

“Okay.” Gaby said, nodding, “Have you called him?”

Illya’s silence was enough of an answer. He expected Gaby to scream at him for behaving like a little child; afraid of doing things he didn’t want. Instead, she stared at him with her big brown eyes and raised her hands to his face and with a stern tone said, “I’m worried about you.”

He opened his mouth to say something; to say that he knew, that he loved her for that, that he did know and he wasn’t sure why she was sticking by him even if he was being not the person she used to know. But, he just sighed, hanging his head in rue. He was stuck in a pit, and he didn’t know how to get out.

A merciful breeze passed by, refreshing the area, making the canopy sway back and forth, a few leaves fell. A new season had started. The world was moving around.

“You’re my best friend, you know?” Gaby said, still holding his face between her small hands.

Those sweet words hurt so much. With a knot in his chest, with dry tears, and with an aching heart, Illya pulled Gaby into a hug. “You too.” He rasped out, “You’re my best friend too.”

“I can tell my uncle—” Gaby started to say.

“No.” Illya rested his forehead on her thin shoulder, “You are going. Your uncle needs you as well. I’ll be fine. I promise.”

Gaby patted Illya’s head like she always had done; as if he was a dog.

“Bring souvenirs when you come back.” Illya said, forcing himself to sound lighthearted.

Gaby knew better than to comment, she gave him half a smile. “I’ll see what I can do.”

They stayed in the shade for the rest of the afternoon.

They didn’t talk about school or Napoleon, they just enjoyed the shade of the three. Gaby was giving him space, she had been doing it since the start of this whole mess. Illya breathed in and out. The bright sky hurt his eyes.

 

* * *

 

 

Instead of calling, Ilya decided to text Napoleon. Somehow, he felt more comfortable to do it that way than to talk over the phone.

 

_To: Napoleon Solo_ _  
_ _From: Illya Kuryakin_

_When are you available to start the project?_

 

Illya send it, and he immediately regretted it. It’s true they weren’t friends, but common courtesy was still a thing nowadays, wasn’t it? He stared at his cell phone in dread. What if Napoleon got offended? What if this was exactly the kind of venom Victoria had been spouting about him – _A Brute with no manners_? He cursed under his breath and then startled when his cell phone vibrated with an incoming text message.

 

_From: Napoleon Solo_ _  
_ _To: Illya Kuryakin_

_I’m currently busy with personal matters. But I believe I’ll be free starting on Thursday morning. I’m also available the weekend that follows. Depending on how much progress we make, we can schedule meetings afterwards._

 

Illya read the text a second time. He thought he was overanalyzing things, besides there wasn’t any reason why he should be more than civil with Napoleon. Gathering his courage, and pushing his doubts away, he texted back.

 

_To: Napoleon Solo  
_ _From: Illya Kuryakin_

_All right, I understand. If it’s okay with you, I’ll like to work on it as soon as possible. Where do you want to work?_

 

Illya sat on his bed and flopped down. After a few minutes, he got a reply.

 

_From: Napoleon Solo  
_ _To: Illya Kuryakin_

_Anywhere it’s fine with me. However, if you’d like we can work at my place. Also, just to confirm, is this number your private number?_

 

Illya’s embarrassment crept up on his face.

 

_To: Napoleon Solo  
_ _From: Illya Kuryakin_

_Sorry, yes, this is mine. Illya. Your lab partner._

 

If Gaby was with him, she would surely say something sarcastic like: Well, that wasn’t awkward at all.

His face was burning and he was glad he didn’t make a call.

 

_To: Illya Kuryakin  
_ _From: Napoleon Solo_

_Do you want me to pick you up? To be honest, it’ll be far easier if I go to your house. Could you give me the address?_

 

Illya was momentarily confused, the wording was one of a question but it was basically an order. Shaking his head, Illya inwardly said ‘whatever’ and texted his address as well as the time.

 

_To: Illya Kuryakin  
_ _From: Napoleon Solo_

_Okay, see you on Thursday around 10 am. Have a nice day._

 

Illya replied out of courtesy because he wasn’t going to make more mistakes dammit.

 

_To: Napoleon Solo  
_ _From: Illya Kuryakin_

_You too._

 

He didn’t get a reply to that. It was fine, he had three days to kill and work on other assignments in the meantime. He looked out of the window, the sun was setting, bright orange with a red hue. It was a nice view, the house was quiet. At that moment, he wished his mom could watch the sunset with him. The sun set slowly and Illya forced himself back to his duties. He needed to carry on.

 

* * *

 

It wasn’t really funny how nervous he felt about meeting Napoleon outside the classroom. Illya waited in the porch of his house, backpack full with supplies they might need and that Napoleon didn’t request. The Jones lived across the street and Illya could see Terry watching TV while his mother was beside him. Illya looked away, just in time to see a red Lexus – latest generation – approach his house. It was obvious who the driver was. He tried to control his anxiety. This was school work. He stood from and went near the car when it parked.

The passenger window smoothly slid down, and Napoleon wearing a pair of dark sunglasses, greeted him with a charming smile, “Good morning.”

Illya greeted back and wordlessly got in the car. As he was strapping on his seatbelt he couldn’t help but notice that Napoleon was wearing casual shorts and tennis shoes. He looked handsome, like he always did but again, being out of school grounds felt odd. Illya himself was wearing something similar but not nearly as stylish as Napoleon made it look.

Napoleon drove in silence for a couple of minutes before reaching an intersection.

“Have you eaten?” Napoleon asked out of the blue.

Taking a few seconds to answer, Illya answered, “Yes.”

A tiny voice in the back of his head protested that there was a limit on how short clipped answers could be. Illya, of course, ignored that voice.

“Would you mind if we stopped for a few moments to buy food? I haven’t eaten since yesterday.” Napoleon looked at the traffic ahead, Illya could tell he already had made up his mind regardless of what Illya might say.

“I don’t mind.” Illya answered.

“Thanks.” Napoleon said.

Napoleon then drove to a local fast food restaurant, got out the car and left Illya to his own devices. The car was still on, so he could tinker with anything is he wanted. He drummed his fingers on the dashboard. Illya’s eyes wandered to the glove compartment. Idly, he wondered what could be inside. But finding out would be overstepping his bounds, wouldn’t it?

So he settled for choosing a radio station that wasn’t too bad.

By the time Napoleon was back, he was carrying six paper bags and the song playing in the speakers said: _Until we kissed/ I never knew the/ Thrills that could be tasted_

Illya refrained from changing the station just then by sheer willpower.

Napoleon set the bags on the backseat and asked with a smile, “A Beatles fan?”

Illya cleared his throat, “Yeah.” Because yes he was and no he wasn’t feeling shy no matter how much he thought Gaby would call him on the lie saying _Bullshit!_

“It’s rare.” He said, and before Illya could get offended added, “I don’t know many people who like classics.”

Inching to small talk, Illya asked, “Do you like them?”

“Yes,” Napoleon answered, and then a playful smile grew on his face, “among other things.”

Somehow that comment, that look, the tone of his voice, the way the sun was shining behind his head, threw Illya for a loop – he understood why Napoleon was liked. Napoleon started the engine and took the paved road while Illya appreciated this new revelation. He wondered if he could know more. The song on the radio ended and different tune began to play.

 

* * *

 

Illya had never seen someone eat so much in one go. Napoleon had just finished his last bite of the greasy homemade burger. Before, Napoleon offered some of his food, Illya had politely declined and became witness of something he would never forget. He helped clean up, Napoleon tried to decline his offer but Illya felt restless. Napoleon’s house was too big and he didn’t particularly wanted to stay seated at the dining table without the owner of said table.

After everything was cleaned up, they started on the project. The entire class would hold a presentation regarding one topic of their “choosing” (which was basically them taking a chance with whatever Mr. Roderick wrote in a piece of paper and do whatever to make it work) and explain it as carefully as possible. Illya and Napoleon got “Nuclear energy: The new future?”. They decided to start by finishing the lab reports they had (additionally) to work beside the final project.

Napoleon moved them to the second floor and to the study room. As Illya climbed the stairs he couldn’t help but feel something amiss. But he quickly dismissed it, they started filling up the reports and somehow they did it without a problem. When there was questions to be asked, neither of them shied away from asking. When suggestions were due, they also were delivered without awkwardness or restrain. They worked as if they have done so since forever.

The hours passed and without Illya noticing, bit by bit they began to talk – not only about school but about hobbies, books, music – even about sports. Napoleon was easy to talk to, Illya concluded when they finished working late in the evening. It had taken longer than expected due to the conversations that followed in between writing. They finished the report in the end. It wasn’t surprising for Illya’s standards. He wondered if it was the same for Napoleon.

The sun was setting by the time Napoleon drove Illya back home. All the lights were out in Illya’s house. Napoleon parked his car and turned his head towards Illya. Illya didn’t glance his way, instead unbuckling the seatbelt. Illya placed his hand on the door’s handle but before opening he turned to Napoleon. He wasn’t wearing his sunglasses anymore and he could see his deep blue eyes. He was completely relaxed on the driver’s seat, his body language inviting and open. Illya’s chest felt tight, but it was different from when he was having his episodes. This felt painful but weirdly good.

“I’ll text you,” Napoleon said in the silence between their stares.

Illya didn’t answer and Napoleon’s eyes got a twinkle of mischief.

“about the rest of our work.” He leaned in, unbuckling his seatbelt, invading Illya’s personal space, placing his hand over Illya’s and helping him open the door.

“I’m looking forward for our next meeting.” Napoleon said looking straight into Illya’s eyes.

Illya’s mouth felt like a desert.

“I’ll see you soon, Illya.” Napoleon pulled away, fingertips brushing Illya’s hand as he drew away once the door was open.

The only thing left was for Illya to climb out.

He did so.

Illya didn’t say goodbye.

Neither did Napoleon, he just drove away, leaving Illya in front of his deserted house.

 

* * *

 

It took three weeks for Illya to realize what was missing every time he went to Napoleon’s house; that and countless hours of texting, video chatting, playing chess and WoW for a few days and somehow co-oping Borderlands 2 from dawn to sunset a couple of days.

The thing was, Illya had never caught a glimpse of Napoleon’s parents, neither had ever heard Napoleon mention his family in general, not even in the most mundane conversations they had had during the pass of summer. Illya just realized this because Illya himself had slipped a bit of information about his father one afternoon while they were lazing in Napoleon’s living room. They had decided to binge watch of all Marvel’s movies. It was a good idea. They spent a nice time together.

That same day Illya realized that he very much liked Napoleon’s company. And consequently had an internal mini-breakdown. The reason of his internal turmoil was that he _liked_ Napoleon – somehow, at some point between shooting aliens and strategizing online fights Illya had developed these troublesome feelings.

Those feelings were troublesome, first and foremost, Napoleon was Victoria’s boyfriend – even if Napoleon had never once brought Victoria’s name in their conversations – this was going to be a problem, right?

Even so, despite this unforeseen development Illya continued like always, most of the time wasting time with Napoleon and a little time progressing on the school project.

So much for finishing quickly. Not that he cared now for the project. Or anything else.

 

* * *

 

 

Never let Napoleon drink anything alcoholic.

It was a lesson Illya learnt the hard way. Well, for starters, it wasn’t his fault but he was there to witness the aftermath. It began like any other day, Illya texted Napoleon for their usual unofficial routine of hanging out. Napoleon replied that their meeting would have to be delayed to a late afternoon since he had a previous meeting he couldn’t postpone.

Illya replied it was okay that they could meet later.

He wasn’t expecting Napoleon to show up at three o'clock in the morning ringing his bell at the tune of Chopin’s Funeral March, or at least attempting to emulate the melody with the ringbell.

Bleary eyed he went downstairs to open the door. What greeted him was the sight of a slightly flustered Napoleon wearing a tuxedo, tie undone, smears of red lipstick on the neck of his white shirt, and a bloody split lip that must have been hurting since Napoleon was smiling like a moron.

“What happened to you?” was Illya’s first question, trying to adapt to the bizarre situation.

“Something fantastic.” Napoleon grinned, a drop of blood leaking down his lip. “I publicly embarrassed my parents in front of their friends.” He laughed and let himself inside. “It was absolutely invigorating, let me tell you.”

Illya got a whiff of a stench of alcohol mixed with perfume, it made his stomach turn. Napoleon wandered off inside the house, twirled around aimlessly while babbling away about how hilarious was the expression of his parents as they found him messing around with the daughter of their soon to be bussiness partner.

Illya just trailed behind him, his mind was muddled. He was unsure as to what to do. Normally, Napoleon was composed, sure of himself, serious and calm. But right then and there, he didn’t look like the Napoleon Illya got to know through the summer. Napoleon announced he was staying and Illya couldn’t do anything more than stare and agree.

Napoleon got quiet then. He stared at Illya with unreadable eyes, a half a smile later and Illya was engulfed in a hug that was comfortable but that distinctly gave a feeling of deep anguish. It was sudden and chaotic, the whole situation was; and just as suddenly the embrace was gone with Napoleon saying he needed a shower.

Dumbfounded by everything Illya was left alone in the middle of the living room while Napoleon climbed the stairs to the second floor.

Illya saw him go but Napoleon didn’t turn back.

 

* * *

 

Illya called Gaby, or at least attempted to. She was busy and really didn’t have the time to give a proper advice to Illya regarding what to do with the situation at hand. The rushed out version Illya gave her ended up in something along the lines of: my new friend is drunk and probably did something stupid and I might or might not be into him, what the hell do I do?

Gaby answered: I don’t have the faintest idea. Just, talk to him? Find out what the hell happened and go from there. I believe in you, buddy.

Which was her way of saying that he was on his own.

Three hours had passed since Napoleon went upstairs to shower and understandably Illya was getting worried. He steeled himself and went upstairs, the obvious choice to look first was the bathroom but somehow a silly part of himself was shying away from finding Napoleon there – Illya really hoped that Napoleon was in his room. 

Of course he wasn’t there.  


Carefully, but with a brave front, or at least he believed he was doing a good job of acting like this wasn’t nerve wracking, Illya opened the door to the bathroom. Thankfully, Napoleon wasn’t drowning or dying. He was just there inside the bathtub, watching at the ceiling, at nothing and everything.

“Are you okay?” Illya asked.

Napoleon didn’t answer. He simply kept on staring at the ceiling. He didn’t seem to have noticed Illya.

He walked to the bathtub and sat on the floor with his back to Napoleon. Illya didn’t say anything. The time passed and they both were silent for a long time.

“Why aren’t you asking anything?”

“I asked you if you were okay. You didn’t answer.”

“You can ask other things.”

“I’m here if you want to talk about anything.”

Napoleon let out a humorless laugh. “Usually, people would be questioning everything by now.”

“I’m not going to pry anything you don’t want to tell me on your own. I’m here to listen, if you want.”

Napoleon hummed. “Listening.” He said to no one in particular. “Would you listen without asking any questions?”

“If that’s what you want.”

“I don’t know what I want.” He said, “At least when it comes to you. I think I want you to ask me things but I’m not sure if you’d want the answers.”

“What are you trying to say, are you afraid of me?”

Napoleon was silent for a moment, “Yeah, I think I am.”

“Why?”

“Because I care what you think of me.” He huffed. “It wasn’t a pretty moment when I realized about that little fact. Look how I ended up.”

Illya thought that sentence over. His heart began to beat faster. That sentence had double meaning, didn’t it? Was he getting ahead of himself if he thought that Napoleon was interested in him? But what if he was wrong? What if this wasn’t nothing more than a misunderstanding, after all, Napoleon was drunk. Probably.

Clearing his throat, Illya asked, “What do you mean by that?”

Water splashed as Napoleon moved behind him. “Good question, what do I mean by what I said.”

Illya felt something cold brush his neck. Napoleon rested his arm across Illya’s chest, his cheek rested against Illya’s ear.

“You’re cold.” Illya pointed out, surprisingly with a steady voice.

“I am.” Napoleon said, his voice, or the coldness of his skin, made Illya feel goosebumps.

“You’re gonna catch a cold.”

“Probably.”

“Then, why don’t you get out and get yourself dry?”

“I want you to do it.”

Illya didn’t reply right away. There were so many connotations, implications, consequences, and repercussions.

“Do you realize what you just said? Do you even know what you mean?”

“I do.” Napoleon’s cold nose brushed the back of his earlobe.

Illya wanted to turn around, but instead he said, “You have a girlfriend.”

Napoleon moved slightly away, and his hand who was still across Illya’s chest began to play with the fabric of his t-shirt. “I do not.”

“You have Victoria.” Illya said with a bit of irritation.

Napoleon let out a tiny laugh of disbelief, “You don’t really pay attention to your surroundings, do you?”

Frowning, Illya asked, “What are you saying? The whole school knows you two are dating. She presents you as her boyfriend.”

Napoleon twisted the fabric between his fingertips, “Victoria and I had never been in any kind of relationship other than being ‘friends’, Illya.”

“Everybody thinks otherwise.”

“Yes, they do. And they are wrong.” He went back to being distracting, brushing his nose and his lips on whatever patch of Illya’s skin was available to touch.

“Victoria presents you as her boyfriend.” Illya didn’t know when he closed his eyes, but he wasn’t really bothered by it.

“She does.” Napoleon nuzzled Illya’s neck, cold droplets of water falling down onto Illya. “She’s really good at making people believe what she wants.”

“You don’t correct her.” Illya stated.

Napoleon hummed, rubbing his nose under Illya’s earlobe again. “I don’t.”

“Why?” Illya asked with a little more than just annoyance.

“Because it would be a bother otherwise. Besides, for now, it’s a benefit for the both of us to be seen that way. Well, it was until a few hours ago. Anyway, she can flaunt all she wants but the truth remains that if I find someone I really want––” He pressed against Illya, now embracing him from behind, he was trembling from the cold, or something else, Illya didn’t know. “––she can’t do anything about it.”

Napoleon kissed Illya’s neck then, slowly, lazily, with an intimacy that should have scared Illya away but that instead just grounded him. Illya’s hands tentatively wandered over Napoleon’s arms, tilting his head to the side.

Napoleon sighed.

It seemed a sigh of relief.

 

* * *

 

In bed, with Napoleon thoroughly dried from head to toe and wearing one of Illya’s fluffiest pajamas, they began to talk. It started lighthearted but somehow they went back to before, about why Napoleon had been drinking.

“You don’t need to say anything if you don’t want to.” Illya said, hand roaming Napoleon’s back, bringing him warmth, a weak excuse to keep touching him.

Napoleon didn’t seem to mind, his eyes were fixed on Illya’s, a certain fondness that was both breathtaking and daunting. He closed his eyes then, getting closer to Illya, speaking with closed eyes – as if the harshness of reality could be smoothed by darkness.

“I started noticing something was off with my family when I was six.” Napoleon’s expression was neutral, as if this retelling wasn’t about him. “Normally, parents go to pick up their kids at school, don’t they? They never set a foot in any of the schools I’d been. They have never even gone to an award event. Not even when I won first place in a writing contest when I was twelve.”

Napoleon searched for Illya’s hand under the covers and began to trace circles on its palm, “During my entire life, the only moments were I was noticed was when it was convenient for them. When they needed to show a smart little thing – when I could be of use for their reputation. I played along – I think I became like them, apathetic to anything but myself. But there was still a foolish part of me that still wanted their acknowledgement. I guess until a while ago I still hoped that by doing what they wanted they would love me a little.”

Illya wanted to say, _I’m sure they love you_. But he couldn’t say that, that would be empty words; he remained quiet and listened.

“The people who gave birth to me shouldn’t have been parents, that’s what I think. Not that it would change anything but I just wanted to say it at least once, I wanted to say that I think in their carelessness and unmindful thinking they don’t care what harm they can do to others – what they did to me.”

Napoleon stopped tracing circles and Illya pulled him closer.

“I guess it’s fine this way, I don’t think they have plans on having more children.”

Illya thought about this person in front of him, how at the beginning he thought nothing of Napoleon (the things he thought he knew about him and took for granted), how much he didn’t know and how much Illya learned when he let himself know more about him – when Illya gave him a chance, when he became his friend. He could wonder how things turned out this way but it wasn’t really an issue, they were here and now and it was fantastic. He didn’t know what could happen in the future. Everything was uncertain and blurry but somehow knowing that someone was beside him right now was beyond reassuring.

“I was lonely.” Illya said in a whisper.

“So was I.” Napoleon replied just as quiet.

“We should be okay now, right?”

“Yeah, I think so.”

 

* * *

 

 

The Dandelion flower’s message is: _do not give up, even if those around you keep trying to get rid of you. Stick it out and remember the cheerfulness of a sunny summer’s day when things seem bleak or dark._

 

 

 


End file.
